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Lyrics translations

New Faust

New Faust


The Prophets

N. Gumilev
translated by: Yevgeny Bonver
source:
Poetry Lovers' Page

There are the modern prophets here,
Though altars totally are felt,
Their eyes are very deep and clear –
In them, the flame of future set.

For them, the calls of fame are alien,
They’re pressed by mass and depth of words,
All they are frightened, pale and sullen
In tombs of stony abodes.

And sometimes in the fits of sadness,
A prophet, just repelled by us,
Rise up to skies his look of greatness –
The look of clear and beaming eyes.

He says that he’s in bonds of madness,
But that his soul’s a light for us,
That he has seen in depths of sadness
The shining face of Jesus Christ.

The dreams of Lord have many faces,
Kind is a hand of him, who gives,
Not just the one, like him, in grace is,
And as a knight of kindness lives.

He says that World is not such fierce,
That he’s a prince of Future Dawn.
But just the towers’ black spirits
Listen to him with mock and scorn.

Eternal

N. Gumilev
translated by: Yevgeny Bonver
source:
Poetry Lovers' Page

I'm in the days' embracing limits,
Where even skies are ever gray,
Look through the ages, live in minutes,
And wait for Holy Saturday;

The end of soul's aimless travels,
Of lucks and troubles peaceful end.
O, come, my day when I'll be able
To Know, See and Understand.

My soul will be so new and broad,
All, that's alluring, will be mine.
And I will bless the golden road,
From blind worm and to golden sun.

And he, who went with me wherever,
Trough thunders and the silent peace,
He, who was kind to me in fever,
And cruel when I stayed in bliss;

Who taught me to a wisdom whole,
To fight, reserve, or overcome,
Will turn to me, and leave his pole,
And simply tell me, "We have come."

And More than Once You will Remember Me…

N. Gumilev
translated by: B. Raffel & A. Burago
source: Selected Works of Nikolai S. Gumilev, 1972

You'll still remember me—still,
and my strange, moving world
of nonsense and songs and fire,
the only honest world in our world.

It was yours, had you wanted. Was it
too much, my world ? Too little ?
Maybe I wrote bad poems
and prayed—I shouldn't have prayed—for you.

But you'll bend, all boneless, and say,
"No, I don't remember, I can't,
I'm caught in another world
of rough, simple beauty."


© 2011 Little Tragedies